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ST. GERVAIS 
and other poems 



C3$Z 
/3<f 



ST. GERVAIS 

AND OTHER POEMS 



by 

CARGILL 
SPRIETSMA 



Printed by 

THE CARGILL COMPANY 
Grand Rapids, Michigan 

MCMXX 






Copyright, 1920 
BY CARGILL SPRIETSMA 



JUL 19 

Printed in the United States of America 

©CI.A570759 

1 






TO 
MY MOTHER 



Permission to reprint such of these 

poems as have appeared in the New 

York Herald is hereby gratefully 

acknowledged. 



CONTENTS 

December 27 13 

America : A Song for Our Generation . . . .15 

Venezia 21 

Echoes 23 

Nero 25 

Rosemary for Remembrance 27 

An Aspiration 28 

The Glory of the Sea 31 

Flowers of the Fields of France 34 

A Memory of Compline 36 

Along Le Quai des Chartrons 37 

St. Gervais 40 

Thou Wilt Come No More 47 

The Cross 51 

To a Flower from La Tranchee Rouget . . 54 

At Bausart 55 

Erika — After a Painting 61 

The Fallen God 62 

The Maid's Lament 69 

In Pere Lachaise 70 



Page Eleven 



Alone — Only a Student's Light 72 

Friendship 73 

Upon the Return of Certain Gifts .... 74 

To 76 

Silence 77 

The Reply 78 

To Any Friend 79 

Sonnet: Oscar Wilde 81 

Nature's Way 82 



Page Twelve 



Car gill Sprietsma 



DECEMBER 27 

rW\0 THEE, my mother, who ever art 

JL My love, my all, 

I consecrate what in my heart 

Is free from worldly-bitter gall: 

Whate'er befall, 

Whate'er the sins that would enthrall, 

111 fortune, or ill health, 

Or should the lotus flower, wealth, 

Benumb me, make me small 

In spirit, do thou my aim recall — 

Forsake thou not thy son — 

Life's course is quickly run: 

For thee, 'twas so bitter brief, 

And I in hours of grief 

Have oft ungrateful been, 

And weakly bowed to sin. 

O let me not again 

Be sad, nor thy great sacrifice forget. 



oo 



Page Thirteen 



oo St. Gervais and Other Poems 



And when small fortunes fret 

My spirit, come thou to me 

With love and tender care, 

That I may bear 

The course which lies before: 

And do thou one thing more — 

Make me thus strong that I may go 

Beyond each obstacle, that no 

Rebuke of pain may find me weak 

To fall before the end I seek, 

O make me strong to live the years that should be thine 

But thou didst die to make them mine. 



Page Fourteen 



Car gill Sprietsma oe> 



AMERICA: 
A SONG FOR OUR GENERATION 

YYTHEN through me coursed the first young 
V V Passion blood, 

Which swelled the heart and sent its flood 

Of wild emotion through the pulse, and its wild fire 

Within me kindled all my being to desire — 
Gave me Heavenly vistas in the night, 
And filled me with sensations of delight, 

Thy stern call came 

To take me from my dreams of love and fame, 

I answered, and for thy name 

I gave my youth. 

Though in those youthful days I did not heed 
The morrow, but followed with that speed 
With which the blood of youth coursed through me, 
From flight to flight, and with small thought of thee — 
Though thou didst take from me those days 
When skies were always bright, when rays 
Of sunshine filled the perfumed air, 
And love made life forever fair — 



Page Fifteen 



<X> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



When came thy call, youth faltered not, 

But chose itself the sterner lot — 

And love itself thine altar sought, 

Its consecrated sacrifice unto thee brought. 

And now that I have given my youth to thee, 

Which gods alone may give and still retain, 

And now that I stand firm and free 

To choose and love again — 

I hear thy call. 

'Tis not the call that asks for life, 
Not the martial call of drum and fife 
Calling me to follow on. 
The glories of those days are gone, 
When foes whose banners we could read, 
Upon thine unstained land would tread. 
'Tis not the call to martial toil, 
Nor fighting on an alien soil, 
'Tis not the chance that vict'ry gained, 
Returning with thy flag unstained, 
Fair love will take the laurel wreath, 
And smilingly on victor breathe — 



Page Sixteen 



Car gill Sprietsma oo 



For whilst we fight, fair love is changed, 
And lovers' hearts become estranged; 
Fair youth is gone down to its grave, 
Though I may for its love-joys crave, 
And now I know when next I give, 
My love again may never live — 
Yet give I all, to thee my land, 
Here is my life, thine to command. 

I hear thy call, 

Whilst traitors rob thee of thine all 

Which lives of heroes bought 

For thee, who traitors fought 

On alien soil. 

Red-handed would they spoil 

Thee of thy virgin head, 

Whilst they lie dead 

Who would not see thee stained! 

Who has the victory gained 

If those besmirching hands may fondle thee, 

And call thee mine? Rather would I die than see 

Their gifts with gaudy glare 

Upon thy naked bosom blare — 



Page Seventeen 



oo St. Gervais and Other Poems 



To see thee trucked to trade, 
And beauty from thy figure fade, 
Now yielding thy pure self to those 
Who shirked thy call and idly chose 
To court thee whilst thy lover died — 

O be not like the maid who cried 
One morning when her lover fell, 
But rival wed ere chapel bell 
Had tolled the funeral hour. 

Thou call'st to free thee from the grasp 

Of that foul arm which now doth clasp 

Thee in its deadly brace; 

Awaken, view in truth the face 

Of that strange monster who as friend 

But seeks destruction as thine end: 

Thou hast been weak, no more, 

And still art strong, thy store 

Of faith in those who died 

Must be thy strength, for they relied 

On thee to chastise all 

Who answered not their country's call. 



Page Eighteen 



Cargill Sprietsma <X> 



How shalt thou know the strangling fist, 
How canst thou his strength resist 
Whose garb is that of friend, 
How canst thou know he seeks thine end, 
Who makes thee gifts of beaten gold, 
And stands and sees thy virtue sold? 

O hast thou seen the water snake, 
What wondrous grace its movements take 
When moonbeams shimmer on its slime, 
And change to jewels its filthy grime? 

Thy call I hear is not the call 

That bids me in the battle fall, 

A sob I hear, a plaintive cry, 

And not the captain's call, "Stand by", — 

'Tis not the call to shoulder arms, 

'Tis not attended with the charms 

Of sad farewells and ostentatious tears 

Displayed by those whose selfish fears 

Creep out when called to sacrifice. 

Yet is thy call as clear, 

Not this year, 

Nor the next will be the end; 



Page Nineteen 



oo St. Gervais and Other Poems 



For those who will thy flag defend, 

Must answer not today alone, 

Nor will a single deed their debt to thee atone — 

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, that thou mayst live, 

To thee my love and life I give. 



Page Twenty 



Cargill Sprietsma 



oo 



VENEZIA 

ORIDE with me again into that still lagoon, 
Beneath a star-filled Heaven, 
Beneath a lowering moon, 
By zephyrs driven. 

O rest with me beneath the canopy 
Which shields us from the light, 
Aimless as a butterfly 
In fantastic flight. 

O drink with me the silent air 
In sweet repose, 
Whilst, banishing despair, 
Our eyelids close. 

Then, when a voice so clear 
Comes from the deep, 
Love song of gondolier 
Waft us to sleep. 



Page Twenty-one 



<x> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



GONDOLIERS SONG 

LOVE at my feet lies a-dreaming, 
Guarded by spirits of old, 
Moon, moon ever beaming, 
Turning the ocean to gold, 
Lighten these waters for fairies, 
Who come from the jewel-laden sea, 
And quicken the tide which carries 
My own love back to me. 



Page Twenty-two 



Car gill Sprietsma 



ECHOES 

O BROTHER, hold it 'gainst your ear, 
See what pretty song you hear — 

brother, I wish that you would tell 
What makes the singing in the shell." 

1 answered, '"Tis the sea", 
But quickly, she, 

"It sings so softly now to me, 

surely brother, could it be 
The angry sea?" 

1 answered, "'Tis the sea-nymph's melody". 

I placed the shell against my ear, 
And heard a pleasant, soothing strain, 
I drew my darling near to hear 
The echoes of each soft refrain. 

There were echoed songs unsung 
To ordinary ears, 



<x> 



Page Twenty-three 



oo St. Gervais and Other Poems 



A harp upon a cedar hung 
A thousand years. 

And then we cast away the shell 
Upon the crest of breaking wave, 
Into the foam the songster fell, 
And to the sea its music gave. 

That was years ago, and oft 

I've longed to hear again 

The voice so low, so sweet, so soft, 

That throbbed through every short refrain: 

That waked in me my sluggish blood, 
That gave me voice that I might sing, 
That sent me on a surging flood 
To Her my songs to bring. 

Full many years I waited, dumb, 
I searched each shell along the sea, 
And now at last my song has come, 
O may I sing for thee? 



Page Twenty-four 



Car gill Sprietsma 



<x> 



NERO 

OF MY own volition what am I, 
But a cursing thief, a beast in a sty, 
But a dream betrayed, 
And a death delayed 
By a burning lust that will not die? 

What am I when my will is freed, 

And bound by none but its own false creed? 

My lust reveals 

What my word conceals 

To the world whose approval I heed : 

What am I when my friends are gone, 

And I am a law to myself alone, 

With nothing to heed 

But passions which lead 

Me to pleasures of lust ripely grown? 



Page Twenty-five 



St. Gervais and Other Poems 



Most ancient of rites, O lascivious sights, 

indulgence of secret delights, 
Now heated by wine, 
Unhampered by time, 

1 revel in clandestine nights. 

This is my life which you cannot see, 

This is the life that my mind which is free, 

Builds at its ease, 

My lust to appease, 

And ever is mistress for me. 



Page Twenty-six 



Car gill Sprietsma 



ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE 
I. 

THREE months — almost four — 
Oh, more than four since that last hour 
When thou didst speak to me — 

Oh, how I miss thee — the quay 
From where I now observe the sea 

In vain — in vain, there is no joy for me. 



Page Twenty-seven 



<x> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE 

II. 

An Aspiration 
Before departure for France, Spring, 1918 

TTT 1 E WHO never prayed before 

V V Have learned to pray, 
We who never thought of more 
Than pleasure for a day, 
Who never looked so far away 
Into the future as to hope, 
But chose to grope 
Along in darkness 
Year by year, 
Are hoping now! 
We have learned to seek, 
With eagerness, unrest, 
For things of which to speak 
Before, was but to jest. 



Page Twenty-eight 



Car gill Sprietsma <X> 



Oh, how the hearts of those must ache, 

Whose loud and unheard cries 

Have risen — "For Christ's sake 

End the war"; a nation dies, 

And still the cry goes on — 

If twelve months from this day 

We too are gone, 

God spare the souls, we pray, 

Who this day cry to Thee, 

Along with all who blindly 

Now have died. 

We go, impelled by hope 

That from the darkness where we grope 

The world will find 

A purer kind 

Of love. 

The wish for fleeting pleasure now is gone, 
The hope for happiness has come, 
The days and months of hardening life, 
The coming of the day of strife 



Page Twenty-nine 



<x> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



That makes the whole world wet 

With blood, has taught us not regret 

For what is past, but hope! 

Oh, if we ne'er return 

To those dear hearts at home, 

If those warm hearts which yearn 

Must travel on alone 

To this life's end — 

Remember this kind friend — 

The prayers and hopes of hearts 

At war, are not for blood, 

But that the years of peace will bring 

Those things to which our hearts now cling, 

That those who follow us may know 

That we must reap from seeds we sow, 

And hope that those in after years 

Will reap fair flowers from the tears 

That fall upon our graves. 



Page Thirty 



Car gill Sprietsma 



oo 



ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE 

III 

The Glory of the Sea 

For L. P. H.— April, 1918. 
After gun practice by convoy on the Atlantic 

MAN 

A HEART by sudden death and loss 
il Of loved one in the strife 
Is tortured, though it bear the cross, 
The beauty of the life 

Which grew from love once nurturing there 
Is scarred by pangs of sharp despair, 
Though faith lives on that days will be 
When wordly vales are passed, 
The fond belief that both shall see 
A perfect love at last — 
Upon that life remains a scar 
Which was not there before the war. 

O nothing from the fate of change is free, 
But the living glory of the sea — 
The beauty of the sea, sea, sea. 



Page Thirty-one 



<X> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



THE EARTH 

A QUIET vale by cannon's blast 
/l Is rent in hideous shapes, 
Nor the bordering mountain pinnacles vast 
The scarring hand escapes, 
E'en all that grows and lives on land 
Must suffer from the Vandal's hand, 
And though a beauty soon shall grow 
Upon the bloody field, 
And once again the vale shall know 
A peaceful, fruitful yield, 
Yet on the scene will be a scar 
Which was not there before the war. 

O nothing from the fate of change is free, 
But the living glory of the sea, 
The beauty of the sea, sea, sea. 



Page Thirty-two 



Cargill Sprietsma 



THE SEA 

jnO/? I have seen the shattering shell 
X Burst ope the waters deep, 
In flame as from the gates of Hell 
The ocean's contents steep, 
But the sparkling sea rolled as before 
And never waned in its glorious roar; 
Not suffering from destruction's hands, 
Its beauties never wane — 
It changeability withstands, 
Yet never is the same: 
Each old sea had its beauty old, 
In each new sea, the old behold! 

O nothing from the fate of change is free, 
But the living glory of the sea, 
The beauty of the sea, sea, sea. 



oo 



Page Thirty-three 



<X> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE 

IV 
Flowers of the Fields of France 

rMELDS of France, I thought that I should look 
X in vain 

To find your beauty, when I came 
To view the ground where bloody death had been, 
And men in pain and agony had lain. 

In vain, for hard and frozen clods had made 
A weary ground, which to the spade 
Would hardly yield a resting place, a grave 
Where shattered, tortured heroes might be laid. 

But now I know that those who lie within your fold 

Are resting there, the mould 

Of Beauty is not lost, for I behold 

Their forms come from your clods so cold. 



Page Thirty-four 



Car gill Sprietsma <x> 



The ashen gray which I beheld upon their lips 

Is gone : the dew of morning drips 

From off their cheeks, flits 

Now and darts the bee, and honey sips. 

All the Winter — there are many dead — 

Those braves who all the charges led, 

Though wounded ceased not ; with wounds which bled 

Still hotly fought until the fierce foe fled. 

This glorious Spring their beauty now reveals, 

Not now a barren sod conceals 

Their glory, but aloud, aloud it peals 

The beauty of their lives in rapturous fields. 



Page Thirty-five 



<X> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE 

V 

A Memory of Compline, aboard a train from Blois to 
Somewhere, France, hour of Compline, May, 1918. 

/WONDER if the stars above the chapel shine, 
I wonder if the clock is tolling nine, 
And earnest men from studies turning now to prayer 
Before the crucifix upon the altar there 
At compline in the Lady Chapel of Racine — 

I wonder if they heard the echo of the call 
That came to us so clearly from the pall 
Which shrouds a million silent sorrows over sea, 
I wonder, would they hear a call from me 
At compline in the Lady Chapel of Racine — 

Or do they night by night in solemn chorus chant, 

In dignity their daily sins repent, 

And pray once more that God Gomorrah spare, 

And we their joys of righteous may share, 

At compline in the Lady Chapel of Racine? 



Page Thirty-six 



Car gill Sprietsma 



<—> 



ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE 

VI 
Along Le Quai des Chartrons — An Old Tar 

OVER the wall its tall masts rise 
Up as if to meet the skies — 
I recall one night, it seemed to me 
A glorious sight along the quay 
To see them, and hear a tale from the wizened tar 
Who had manned the ship through all the war, 
Regardless of the lurking fate 
Which many a free lance days of late 
Had reckoned with a drunken smile, 
Had ventured as in days of yore 
With a cargo bound for a southern shore, 
Telling his last wild tale of the sea 
While leaning here on the wall of the quay. 

There was a mark of life to the days, 
A fascination to the old tar's ways, 
I loved the strange bohemian dress, 
I loved the sound of the wave's caress 
Against his schooner's bulk — 

Page Thirty-seven 



<x> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



I loved the hag who used to skulk 

As a cur along the great long pier, 

I loved the woman with cart so queer 

Who used to pass each twilight hour, 

I loved the lighthouse on the breakers' edge, 

For it cast a shadow on the ledge 

Which through the day was a barren rock 

And the wildest sea would only mock. 

I loved the seaman's tavern too, 

Where the thirsty captain and all the crew 

Spent the latest hours of leave ashore, 

There I gathered the tales of seaman's lore, 

And' took a pleasure and strange delight 

In the dance of the tar's drunken dame at night, 

I heard the strains from the pimp's guitar, 

I mixed with the crowd that shirked the war, 

I drank a strong and bitter brew, 

I cursed and sang as one of the crew, 

And then I left them to their brawl, 

Through the rain, or the fog, at last to crawl 

Between my blankets in the early dawn, 

Humming the refrain of their latest song. 



Page Thirty-eight 



Cargill Sprietsma 



oo 



But now I lean on the wall of the quay, 

The old Chartron has no life for me, 

Below me there along the walk, 

Different tars and different talk, 

The dance and the brawl, 

The masts towering tall — 

The waves, and the darkness covering all — 

Only the lighthouse there far away, 

And the cruel pointed rocks so barren by day — 

Only there now is mystery, hidden and black, 

Which all life about me now seems to lack, 

These haunts now are hateful — the old tar is gone, 

And I labor here, living alone — 

It was not for the sake of the brawl and the crew, 

It was not for anything then which I knew, 

But something which drew me — it happened to be here, 

Where I saw all these sights amusing and queer — 

They are horrible now, they are hateful to me, 

As I lean on the wall which borders the quay. 



Page Thirty-nine 



<X> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE 

VII 

St. Gervais 
Lines written on Good Friday, 1919 in Paris. 

St. Gervais is the church in Paris, hit by a shell from 
the German long range gun on Good Friday, 1918, 
when almost a hundred of those worshiping there 
were killed or wounded. C. S. 



1. 



A YEAR ago 
JTjL In silence knelt a feeble mother here 
Upon the stones of St. Gervais; 
In silence 

Through the forty days of Passion, 
Prayer had followed prayer 
To Him Who would not hear. 

Now there upon that bare, cold stone 
She knelt, to ask once more 
The end of all the brutal infamy 
Which like a plague had swept 
This earth of youth. 



Page Forty 



Car gill Sprietsma 



oo 



And there she prayed that truth 

Might soon be victor, 

And that her lost blood, 

The sacrifice upon a recent field, 

Should not have been in vain. 

She prayed in silence for the son 

Now, and for the righteous cause. 

Again she crossed herself — 

Her daily prayer had gone to Him 

Who never seemed to hear. 

Then the service of the afternoon began, 

And when she there recalled 

The passion of her Lord, 

She wept, 

And a warm tear 

Dried on her withered cheek, 

Once again she knelt 

And prayed, not for her son, 

But for the end of all the wrong 

Which threatened all the world. 



Pagt Forty -one 



St. Gervais and Other Poems 



"O take, dear Lord, 

The sacrifice of blood ; 

To us who live, be harsh, be cruel, 

But spare the generations from the chains 

Of serfdom's iron yoke. 

O take, take all our blood — 

We offer all — 

Here we, too old to die, 

Before Thy cross in supplication lie." 

And she, whose blood was thin, 

Too thin to heat the hands 

So cold that when they touched the stones 

Which long had pressed the faithful knees, 

Felt not the contact 

But the firm resistance only — 

The prayer still coming from her soul — 

To that firm refuge 

She had come each day, 

And when the siren or a bursting shell 

Had warned her of the dreadful hour 

Of death, 

She did not cower, 

But safely rested near the cross. 



Page Forty-two 



Car gill Sprietsma 



It was a frightful silence 

Which had awed the hour 

Of prayer in St. Gervais, 

And each lone soul 

In silence made its prayer, 

With only God to hear. 

The sombre light through ancient glass 

Gave benediction, 

And to the lonesome soul 

An angel seemed to hover 

Round them all, 

As if to search each soul 

To give it strength for one last trial. 

To all it seemed that 

He would hear this day 

Their prayer for victory of the right, 

And in the prayer of passion 

They all knelt. 



Page Forty-three 



oo St. Gervais and Other Poems 



From the mother 

Came the soul out-pouring prayer, 
And as she bent to touch the very stones 
With her gray head, 

That angel came from out the mystic light, 
Its voice so pure 

And filled with Heavenly harmony- 
It dazed her, 

She felt the strange sensation of a shock — 
A numbness, 

Such as soldiers from a wound 
And loss of blood feel in exhaustion, 
When the power of will gives way 
To loss of sense, — as he who eats 
And lives on opium has a dream, 
So this old soul 
So strangely heard, and felt 
The angel, 

And the form from out the silence 
And the mystic light 
Bore her away 
From St. Gervais. 



Page Forty-four 



Car gill Sprietsma <» 



And now thou art at rest, 

O in thy sleep be blest, 

And look upon this service in relief, 

And see the scars, and count the grief 

Of hearts that come into this shrine, 

The shrine made doubly sacred by the glory which is 

thine, 
To die as nobly as thy son for whom thou prayed 
To give thy life, though from the battle stayed 
By age and by the mission of thy sex. 

Thou wert taken, trusting in the God Who took thee 

Kneeling at His door, thou didst not see 

Nor hear the insane crash of steel 

That shook the stern foundations — made them reel, 

And shattered all the ancient art to naught 

Which pious souls laboriously brought 

And dedicated year by year, 

'Twas well thou didst not hear, 

But swooned thus in thy prayer. 



Page Forty-five 



<X> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



To us who kneel where thou wouldst kneel today, 
If thou wert here, to us who say- 
In unison a prayer — a solemn Evensong — 
Who chant, and bid Him to redress the wrong — 
To us are left the scars on ancient wood and stone, 
Left by the ragged steel, the pieces flown 
In countless wild directions in mad haste 
To find thy vitals, there to taste 
The blood of innocence, and halt thy prayer. 

But that hot steel had come too late 

To halt thy prayer for right, which Fate 

Had carried to the ears of Him Who heard, 

Insults, death, destruction, His Own Word 

Defiled, and sacred ground with rape 

And bloodshed stained, — to us 'tis left to shape 

The Charter of Prevention, and the scars 

Which on the stones and wooden bars 

Of St. Gervais shall e'er remain, cry out, "Beware". 



Page Forty-six 



Car gill Sprietsma 



oo 



ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE 

VIII 

Thou Wilt Come No More 
A memory of Pontanezon Barracks, Brest, France 

T\EAD! 

M-J And nothing left me but thy name 

Carved on this rude old door. 

Dead! 

Thou didst carve it here the night we came 

To sleep on this caserne floor. 

O the thirteen days on a deck of slime, 
O the horde of men and the stench of grime, 
O the thirteen nights 'neath the water line — 
Thou dead — and the memory mine. 

Dead! 

And I am resting here again 

Upon this caserne floor. 

Dead! 

But I am going home again 

Where thou wilt come no more. 



Page Forty-teven 



o*> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



For thou art dust, and I a living thing 
With memory, which to the past must cling, 
And see the painful moment e'er 
Which made thee dust, and me to bear 
This moment here alone. 

Dark the night, and high the April sea, 
Cold the rain, but warm there near to thee; 
Far warmer, for my heart was warm 
There 'neath our blanket arm in arm 
With thee, than here alone. 

The crash of the submarine rings in my ears, 
The blow of steel will resound through the years, 
My memory wakening with dread, — 
For thou, then with me, now art dead — 
Oh, it is fearsome here alone. 

Risked how often thy life for me, 

Death thou didst not fear; I see 

The day of June when thou didst lead 

Us through the wire, nor wound didst heed. 



Page Forty-eight 



Car gill Sprietsma oe> 



Not for thy death ought I to feel 
This awful anguish, thou didst seal 
With death a friendship, with disdain, 
Death was no stranger when he came. 

That first night in this strange land, 
'Twas good to rest and hold thy hand, 
Under the same rough roof to lie 
And talk — of death to wonder why. 

The rats and vermin, — these were naught, 
'Twas for our loves and homes we fought, 
As I shared the warmth of thy earthly home, 
Why am I here to return alone! 

Dead! 

And nothing left me but thy name 

Carved on this rude old door. 

Dead! 

Thou didst carve it here the night we came 

To sleep on this caserne floor. 



Page Forty-nine 



<X> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



O the days in a trench full of men who could move 
With the pain which only death could soothe, 
O the nights under ground 'neath the firing line — 
Thou dead — and the memory mine. 

Dead! 

And I am resting here again 

Upon this caserne floor. 

Dead! 

And they are sending me home again — 

Oh, wilt thou come no more? 



Page Fifty 



Cargill Sprietsma 



oe> 



ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE 
IX 

The Cross 

A small cross was all that remained to the young man 
by which he could remember his dearest friend who, 
after having lost both legs and an arm, in the Argonne, 
died in the young man's arms. C. S. 

MUST I part with it now? 
It was warm as thy breast 
Where it hung, and my vow 
This to wear did attest 
Our loves; O thy dying wish, 
Feebly uttered through thy pain, 
Overcoming that anguish, 
Knowing that thou hadst been slain — 
Clinging with thy single arm, 
Whilst I laid thee low, 
Whilst thy blood, warm, 
Deathly blood, did hotly flow 
From thy wounded side, 
Side which only death could heal, 
Wound which steel had opened wide; 
Piercing, maiming, shredding steel! 

Page Fifty -one 



<X> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



How can I speak of that red sight, 
How can I to thy mother give 
The pain of that benumbing fright 
Which made me dread to see thee live? 
Must I part with this small cross 
Which hung upon thy breast? 
Breast grown cold with fevered loss 
Of spirting blood from wounds undressed ! 
Oh, such wounds as men received 
In the fearless days we saw, 
Oh, such loss as now bereaved, 
Holds me still with silent awe — 
Horror of the crazing sight, 
When I laid thee thus possessed 
Of fitful strength, unhuman might, 
Half dead, to tear this from thy breast! 
Thy mother's right is right of birth, 
Is right that comes from bearing pain, 
My right is right that comes when earth 
Turns back a man to dust again, 
And takes from him in greater pain 
The life his mother made him live, 



Page Fifty-two 



Car gill Sprietsma 



If by suffering men do gain 
Their claim on life, death this did give, 
The right to give thy love to me, 
And giving love, this token blest, 
With which lives my thought of thee — 
It shall rest here as on thy breast, 
The token is to her less gain, 
Who suffered but a distant loss, 
Who saw not how in all thy pain, 
Thou gavest to me this sacred cross. 



oo 



Page Fifty-three 



<x> st. Gervais and Other Poems 



ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE 
X 

To a Flower from La Tranchee Rouget 



' rW\ WAS for my Love I gathered thee, 

A. Near the bend in La Trenchee Rouget; 
The only life on the field to greet me, 

Where the dead in their own blood lay. 

I thought of the hour when I would give thee, 

To my Love who was far away; 
I thought of the day when my Love would greet me — 

How I longed for my Love that day! 

'Twere better, dear flower, that thou hadst grown, 

On my grave in that fertile field; 
Far rather I'd died there than here to have known, 

My loss that must e'er be concealed. 



Page Fifty-four 



Car gill Sprietsma 



oo 



AT BAUSART 

For H. W. 

"TTT HAT yawns so pitifully with open mouth, 
V V What apparition from afar 
Comes toward me with its mien uncouth, 
From out the graveyard of Bausart? 

It bears no uniform to tell 

'Tis one who in the battle died, 

No Greenback from the abodes of Hell, 

Or blue of Poilu sanctified. 

It moves, comes onward, now retreats, 
Comes forward once again, 
What is the instrument which beats 
And moans this ephemeral strain? 

O none but warriors here have died, 
And they in death their colors wear, 
Nor do they to the quick confide 
Such pain as that which walketh there. 



Page Fifty-five 



St. Gervais and Other Poems 



For they who thus their debt have paid, 
But welcome death as sweet relief, 
And as they in the earth are laid, 
Rest there and leave behind their grief. 

Nor do they walk this painful ground 
As this unrestful, ghastly form, 
The earth receives them in her womb 
As mother holds her child from harm. 

O cease thy moving, stop that strain, 
O leave these warriors to their rest, 
And mock not with thy show of pain, 
Which women moves but men detest. 

"Oh, I am doomed to walk in pain, 
And hover o'er my opened grave, 
Until my bones be placed again, 
Within this hole by warrior brave. 

For until then the soul so foul, 
Which tore me from my rightful grave, 
Now lies therein whilst my purged soul, 
Must burn and be his guardian slave." 



Page Fifty-six 



Car gill Sprietsma 



<—> 



"'Tis not for me to find thy bones, 
Collect the atoms scattered wide, 
'Tis for a million lazy drones 
To scour the town and country-side." 

And then the thing gave such a wail, 
I thought that all the dead had moaned, 

what could thus this thing assail — 

1 thought the thousand dead had groaned. 

And through the dark on hands and knees, 
I neared the desecrated grave, 
To search uprooted rocks and trees, 
This spectre's blasted bones to save. 

And thus to search this cavern vast, 
To find a million specks of bone, 
Amid the ruin where the blast 
Mixed these decayed remains with stone. 

And all the time above my head, 
There was a sound as of a bat, 
Against the walls which house the dead, 
Or grating noise of gnawing rat. 



Page Fifty-seven 



oo st. Gervais and Other Poems 



So I labored through the night, 

Where once I'd fought and tempted shell, 

I pondered on this horrid rite 

Of saving unearthed folks from Hell. 

And when from out the fields around, 
I'd gathered skull and rotten bones 
To place them in the open ground, 
The spectre stopped me with his groans. 

"These bones alone will not suffice, 
For I must with them buried be, 
The earth my being doth entice, 
Now throw me in and bury me." 

I know the fear that holds the heart 
When one walks hand in hand with death, 
When death is playing the reaper's part, 
And one can feel its icy breath. 

When one must fix his bayonet, 

And charge a man at body's length, 

When loss to act leaves not regret, 

But death from steel and murdering strength. 



Page Fifty-eight 



Cargill Sprietsma OO 



I know the night the shells fell here, 
And opened all the graves which threw 
Their contents to the hills, whilst fear 
Of unearthed ghosts within me grew. 

To charge a man, that I can do, 

To fix a bayonet and strike, 

But hold a ghost — would't break in two? 

I know not what this thing be like. 

Approach it or await its form — 
How should I bury a living soul? 
Yet was this living phantom torn 
From out this open, gaping hole. 

Bones I see, and bones can bury, 
Flesh can rot, and souls depart, 
"Phantom fleet, O phantom, hurry, 
Tell me of what stuff thou art ! 

For thy bones lie there before thee, 
And thy flesh has fattened worms, 
Art thou spirit, soul, or body, 
Takes the soul such hideous forms?" 



Page Fifty-nine 



<X> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



Then I rose up from my knees, 
Shrinking from the dread reply, 
Looking for such things one sees 
In a dead man's glassy eye. 

But the air was clear and pure, 
Still the night and calm as clear, 
Not an owl my wits to lure, 
Nor open grave which had been here. 



Page Sixty 



Cargill Sprietsma oo 



ERIKA— AFTER A PAINTING 

SWEET daughter of an artist's soul, 
Free from sin that makes me foul, 
Born of brush and genius' skill, 
Of feverish heart and fixed will, 
Born of pain as I was born — 
Thou from the painter's heart wast torn, 
Wherein he felt the fire of love 
Which God had sent him from Above, 
And thus from mankind's sin wast freed, 
In purest love to be conceived. 

But still, thou art not his alone, 
Who gave thee outward life, — not bone 
And flesh art thou, that with the day 
Of birth begins its slow decay ; 
A soul art thou that never dies, 
'Tis that which liveth in thine eyes, 
And speaks the master's passion there, 
His love, his life, his soul laid bare, — 
Breathed into thee through him, thou too 
From God's great living spirit grew. 



Page Sixty-one 



oe> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



THE FALLEN GOD— Nov. 1-11, 1918 



SE VEN cold November days have ta'en their 
deathly toll, 
Seven nights with seven days a bloody story tell, 
South from Stenay o'er wooded hill and plain, there 

hourly roll 
Our light and heavy cannon between the Meuse and 
the Moselle. 

Forty-four times thirty thousand men are falling back, 
Forty-four times thirty thousand wills have broken 

down, 
A million seasoned criminals have sickened from 

attack ; 
Who came with royal purple robes retreats with 

shadowy crown. 

A half a million of our hearts are set 

Toward firm and purposed end, 

The odds which thus beset them only whet 

Their iron mettle, obstacles but lend 

An extra strength to the blow 

Now fated heavily to fall, 

The justice these four years so slow 

To enter in the fray, will all 

The losing millions coldly judge. 

Page Sixty-two 



Car gill Sprietsma OO 



Two days the half a million speed 
From gain to gain, and Inor heights 
Are occupied, the roads which lead 
Beyond now witness ghastly sights, 
Those tales but few will tell ; who see 
Die in the seeing, or hiding in the day, 
Take cover and use the night to flee 
From cannonade and youths who lay 
In wait for them with bayonet. 

Nine days the horde has vainly fought to stem the 

fateful tide, 
Which as a raging sea o'erwhelms the broken ship, 

in blood 

Of their own sin now drags them down, held back in 

meadow wide, 
The white and dusty limestone stained is now a 

crimson mud. 

Far off into the land which lies north west of favored 

Gaul, 
A fallen god who leads the losing hordes now prays 

to be, 
His royal robes envelope him like a crimson shadowy 

pall, 
He turns to be the vanguard of the cursed hordes 

which flee. 

Page Sixty-three 



<x> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



Now dawns the fateful day, 

In vain the broken wills of men 

Too deeply steeped in sin, at Stenay 

Seek to check our youths, but pain 

Of death or maiming steel but swells 

The blood within their veins, and hearts 

But beat the quicker, and the foe compels 

To turn, or writhe in pain until all life departs 

And leaves a mangled corpse. 

Night comes, a crossing of the Meuse, 

Our youths near Pouilly and Mouzon, 

With bayonets well fixed, now use 

The weapon of their choice; upon 

The heights of Inor remain 

Our few battalions hurling alien shell 

Upon the foe, they gain, they gain, 

With pain deliver pain, to Hell 

They send the broken hordes. 

How slowly moves a silhouette retreating from the 

west, 
How heavy hangs upon it now the black November 

cloud, 
How slowly creeps it o'er the earth, and from its 

drooping crest, 
How loosely hang the garments, how like a spectre's 

shroud. 

Page Sixty-four 



Cargill Sprietsma 



oo 



There is no martial music here such as some ghosts 

attend, 
When in the night they hover o'er a field where men 

lie slain, 
The dark which falls upon this man alone can him 

defend 
From dead men's hands which 'gainst him rise from 

out the fields of pain. 

There is a muffled cannonade beats for his steps, 
"retreat", 

The guns their beating will not cease until a weary- 
horde 

Has crawled as now this silhouette crawls, sinks 
down on weary feet, 

Drops down from weight of crimson sin, begs mercy 
from the Lord. 

But in the west, 

On youthful brow now gather salty beads, 

Rags hang in tatters, from the wear 

And tear of ragged work, youth speeds 

The sending of the shells that tear 

In just pursuit of him who flees; 

Not here the sneaking step of coward foot, 

Nor in its eyes the look of him who sees 

Within himself the soul- condemning root 

Page Sixty- five 



<x> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



Of evil deeds. Youth strains, it lifts the shell 
Into its place — a signal and a flash, 
And sound which follows quickly after light to tell 
That death again has sped into yon calculated space; 
Now rocks the very air which shocks the chords 
And looses all the muscles of the spine — it marks 

the pace 
Of that now shadowy form which is the vanguard of 

the hordes 
In their retreat. 

Into the night the spectre makes its way, O kindly 

night, 
Since to be black to blackened souls is reckoned kind, 

kind 
Art thou to hide him from the sight of Heaven, to 

shield him from its light, 
To bring upon him blackness of a cloud and stormy 

wind. 

For thus from all the light of nature held away, the 

fire 
Which burns within his blackened soul may now 

burn doubly bright, 
And light the smallest corner of his heart, to see the 

mire 
Within himself — how kind it is to take from him all 

natural light. 

Page Sixty-six 



Car gill Sprietsma 



oo 



But guns roar, 
And shells pour 
Their storm of bursting steel, 

While behind this wretched man come others of his 
clan, 

And night grows weary of its blackness ; breaking day 
Wears a sickly gray upon its fevered lip, with wan 
And nauseous cheek lets the hordes in darkness go 

their way, 
While guns roar, 
And shells pour 
Their storm of bursting steel. 

He flees — not from the hangman — such fate alone 

becomes the man 
Who does foul murder, and no more; he flees, he 

knows not where, 
Into the darkness, to find a pit where no more light can 
Ever enter in — what joy and blessing would be there. 

Perhaps he flees from that dread hour which now 

draws swiftly nigh, 
From that dread day when his defeat brings on his 

fated doom, 
The loss to him of power with which he sent men 

forth to die, 
Perhaps this settles on his heart a melancholy gloom. 

Page Sixty-seven 



<X> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



Perhaps it is the fear of that strange hour when guns 

shall cease, 
And he no longer master of the earth before his horde, 
Now fears to suffer quartering, their cultured taste 

to appease, 
He flees — 'tis all he knows, this shadowy fallen lord. 

Oh, leave him to oblivion's care, and let him seek a 

pit, 
But keep him from the hangman's rope, for only 

there he'll find 
That blackness which he seeks ; to seek the dark, 

but bound to sit 
Within its reach, O, let him live, for death would be 

but kind. 

Yes, let him live, this fleeing, shadowy form, his end 

will come, 
And God may judge with sterner hand, and justice 

better mete 
Than we, who in our passion would dispatch this 

being from 
His misery and in our frenzy God's own way defeat! 



Page Sixty-eight 



Car gill Sprietsma 



THE MAID'S LAMENT 

LO VE can die — fair Love is dead ! 
Who wrote the tale which I have read, 
That Love from Dionysus born 
From Aphrodite took his form? 

O what a tale for aching heart, 
What bitter iron to make it smart, 
When Gods in love together lie, 
Their offspring as we mortals die. 

Why sing of fickle mortal love? 
More constant is the cooing dove, 
E'er faithful is his single mate, 
Though death the pair doth separate. 

Put up within these charnel walls, 
A doom upon my spirit falls, 
And in this prison must abide, 
Nor to the world its pain confide. 

Who loves not is too quick to speak, 
Assuming gentle airs and meek, 
While love in hearts must dormant lie, 
Or wakening, go its way to die. 

Yet heart of lover is aware 
That blooming flower is more fair 
Than seedling or a slip of rose, 
Though death doth soon upon it close. 

Page Sixty-nine 



<X> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



IN PERE LACHAISE 

There is a tomb the history of whose dead is forgotten. 

THY children wept when thou wast borne 
Into this vaulted sepulchre, their grave 
In turn to be; but now none even mourn 
For loss of them or thee ; no hands now lay 
A flower upon the altar in the vault 
Wherein thy children used to come whilst years 
Sped quickly on. 'Tis not the fault 
Of man thy name no longer lives ; our tears 
Are shed a petty hour, perhaps a day, 
A month, or we may think on thee 
Perchance a year — but laying thee away, 
We lay aside our thoughts, we see 
Thee now and then with that cold dread 
Wherewith thou once didst think upon the dead. 

The iron door which once was black and neat 
Is rusting on its hinge, and swings no more, 
The wreath and cross and iron seat 
Are bent, and rusted to the core. 



Page Seventy 



Car gill Sprietsma 



<z~c> 



In vain the letters o'er the door 

Against the inclement rain held sway, 

Thy name I now can read no more; 

And now the darkness or the day 

On earth, as in thy tomb, holds thee 

In utter blackness, and from men are gone 

All traces of thy work ; they neither see 

A record of thy suffering nor thy wrong. 

How vainly do we leave an open door 

Between the grave and earth, when life is o'er. 



Page Seventy-one 



oo St. Gervais and Other Poems 



ALONE— ONLY A STUDENT'S LIGHT 



A LONE — only a student's light, 
XJl, And the awful midnight hour, 
Stillness of a deep cold night, 
And the bells in a weary tower 
Tolling, tolling— "This day's strife 
Is but the measure of a life". 

Why this weariness, — why this learning,- 
Why these books? If only sadness 
Is the fruit of all discerning; 
If no word to bring me gladness 
Can be found within these pages, 
Then how foolish are the sages! 

Books of learning, 'tis not they 
Turn this midnight into day — 
Called I to my heart,"Be still!", 
'Twould not answer to my will, 
Yet I will not— let it yearn, 
Through the midnight let it burn. 



Page Seventy-two 



Cargill Sprietsma 



FRIENDSHIP 

For H. N. 



TIT 1 HEREIN is true friendship felt to touch the 
V V heart 
With that warm comfort, which the smart 
Of adverse fortune makes us feel so doubly kind — 
When to the vistas of the future we are blind, 
And all our hopes are wrapped in blackness of the 

night, 
There comes an aid, a balm of Gilead, gives us sight 
Of God, and strength to watch the sun arise, 
To see again that dawn when it will beam from clear 

blue skies. 



Seventy -three 



<x> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



UPON THE RETURN OF CERTAIN GIFTS 

A YEAR ago my heart was leaping, 
A~\ Beating with unbounded joy, 
Pain of ages by me sweeping, 
Seeking distance to destroy. 

O that waters had been stronger, 
O that time in passing longer, 
Leaving me at least to grope 
For that for which 'tis vain to hope. 

For in that hope was all my youth, 
Was all my fond belief in love, 
Was faith that those who hold to truth, 
May by their faith the world move. 

Sometimes I grasp at what about me 
Seems to be the thing I crave, 
As a man who from the high sea, 
By a straw his life would save. 



Page Seventy-four 



Car gill Sprietsma oe> 



But the years when life and hope 
Were the blessings free to me, 
When the whole world was my scope, 
Were the years I gave to thee. 

And these years once given away, 
Now my life must ever lack, 
Love and faith and spirits gay, 
Not as silver gifts come back. 



Page Seventy-five 



oe> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



To 



TIS good in semi-wakefulness to lie, 
And see thee pass before my conscious eye, 
And reveling in raptures of what seems, 
I build the castle of my dreams. 

So thus may I for hours see thee smile, 
And thus a single night of years beguile; 
Or may I see thine eyes so bright, 
And feast upon their lustre through the night. 

Or may my heart with longing burn 
To hear thy voice and to thy side return; 
Then with my heart so filled with pain, 
My being seeks infinitude again. 

And with my soul thus gone upon its quest, 
My body lies a-quiet seeking rest; 
And o'er me, through the hours, creep 
The blessed fairy-gifts of quiet sleep. 



Page Seventy-six 



Cargill Sprietsma 



oo 



SILENCE 

MONTHS pass which in the passing seem like 
years, 
Each day an effort new or cause for tears 
Which burn the eye and erstwhile end the sight, 
Burn slowly and consume the soul contrite: 
For burdens of the world and not its own 
In that degree, but from sorrows sown 
By other hands, reaps on in stupor dumb, 
Seeing all, knowing the while the day will come 
When slumber, not an overwhelming grief, 
Will bring to it the freedom of relief 
From silence, greater pain than which is none — 
To feel the sorrow, know the pain, alone — 
To suffer it alone, accept the pain 
In silence and in agonized disdain. 



Page Seventy-seven 



oo St. Gervais and Other Poems 



THE REPLY 



" T^E A friend to thee anew", 

U Love, 
If I could know thee true — 
How can I know this too, 
Love, 
Not from thy fancy grew? 

Or even know thy heart, 

Love, 

Is firmer than before — 

Then might I risk the smart, 

Love, 

Of a breaking heart once more. 



Page Seventy -eight 



Cargill Sprietsma 



TO ANY FRIEND 

COME for a moment into fairyland, 
Forget your age, and take my hand 
Whilst we on the acropolis stand 

Which overlooks the island in the sea Aegean, 
And let there come unto our ears that paean 
Sweetly sung, enchantingly Orphean. 

But briefly, for the hours are few, 
Which in their flight still hold you, 
Impatient for a world and vista new. 

Trace through the shadows of the placid trees, 
Unmoved by voices which melt the magic breeze 
That comes to us from o'er the ancient seas 

Which lie beyond, trace the silhouettes 
Of forms which glide like Grecian frets 
About a column. 

Here no regrets, 



Page Seventy-nine 



<x> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



Nor idle, melancholic gloom makes us despair 

Of yesterdays, nor does a silly care 

Of what the morrow brings fill the scented air ; 

But from the motion of those fairy sprites 
Who in their dance sing songs for Orphic rites, 
Comes ecstacy in which the soul delights. 

So dance and sing for me those hours always, 
When through the very haze of life, our ways 
God granted one, though short and few the days. 



Page Eighty 



Car gill Sprietsma 



SONNET— OSCAR WILDE 

TT THAT constellation destines the soul born 
VV Beneath its light, to sadness and to pain, 
No matter from what mother's womb 'tis torn, 
No matter in what cradle it has lain? 
For from that cradle it must walk with shame 
At last into a grave of sad repose, 
Without solace, knowing that it came 
Into the world to be the butt of blows 
And buffets of this earth, to act the shows 
The which to see then fills its mind with hate, 
Until into its own life this hate grows 
For things which to undo 'tis now too late: 
Destined by his birth his art to give, 
Destined by these stars in pain to live. 



Page Eighty-one 



<x> St. Gervais and Other Poems 



NATURE'S WAY 

LET me lie 'neath the underbrush, 
Beside a laughing stream, 
And hear the note of warbling thrush, 
And close my eyes and dream. 

For men are sad and Nature's gay, 
And I will follow Nature's way. 

Let me lie and kiss the stream, 
And drink its nectar in, 
Let the sun upon me beam, 
And wash me clean of sin. 

Though men are weary, Nature's gay, 
And I will follow Nature's way. 

Let me lie and feel the wind 
That whispers through the trees, 
And let my aching spirit find 
Fair music in the breeze. 

For men do sigh while Nature's gay, 
But I will follow Nature's way. 



Page Eighty-two 



Car gill Sprietsma 



Then let the rain upon me pour 
And wet my parched skin. 
And let my soul ecstatic soar 
To Heaven and enter in. 

For men will weep while Nature's gay, 
O let me follow Nature's way. 



oe> 



Page Eighty-three 



Hi? 89 



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